THE PAINTER
As a widower he could stay standing on the dirt road
and let his gaze follow a cloud
till it died.
All that remained of his wife’s letters were read-bare tatters.
Had he not been prevented by started canvases,
brushes and plaintive colours
he could have come to terms with the truth
about dirt roads, clouds and impossibilities.
(No one shall succeed!)
Was life a dream?
Yes, life was a dream, with hard outer edges.
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